


as it's called again

by akaparalian



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Beach Divorce, Drabble, Fix-It, M/M, Not Quite Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all happened so fast, they would say later. One minute, Charles was there, whole, desperate, and then the next, he was nothing but a crumpled pile of limbs, bleeding into the Cuban sand, straining quite obviously not to cry out, to stay strong, and it was all Erik could do, in that instant when he turned, surprised, anger stuttering to a stop on his face, not to crumple to the sand with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as it's called again

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaah, so, I don’t really know where this came from… I’ve been sort of itching to rewrite the beach divorce since I watched First Class a couple days ago, so here we are, I guess. This particular piece came at me out of the blue, so I took a couple of hours and typed it out so it would stop bugging me… as of yet, no beta, but I’ll hopefully have someone look over it later. As it is now, I’m tired and there are probably mistakes, so if you see any, let me know and I’ll fix them up. c: The title is from The Cave by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> Soundtrack: The Cave, Mumford and Sons; I and Love and You, Avett Brothers; The Scientist, Coldplay; No Light, No Light, Florence + the Machine

It all happened so fast, they would say later. One minute, Charles was _there_ , whole, desperate, and then the next, he was nothing but a crumpled pile of limbs, bleeding into the Cuban sand, straining quite obviously not to cry out, to stay  _strong_ , and it was all Erik could do, in that instant when he turned, surprised, anger stuttering to a stop on his face, not to crumple to the sand with him.  
  
His first coherent thought came well after he’d thrown himself down at Charles’ side, pulling the bullet out with shaking hands:  _He’s going to be okay._  After all, the bullet was gone, and any shrapnel would have come with it, and, though the very thought burned, if it had pierced Charles’ spinal column, he would surely already be dead. And there was still a spark, a very real life, in those bright blue eyes he’d spent so long being so unhealthily eager to stare at; Charles was going to be okay, they were going to be okay, he would get him out of this madness and off this stupid beach and out of fucking  _Cuba_ where people (even beautiful, kind people, even people almost too good, too  _whole,_  to really be people, even  _Charles_ ) got shot at-  
  
That was when he remembered, with a sort of mental  _click_  as everything slid into place, that there had been shots fired, that there had been a shooter. His head whipped up and his eyes narrowed, pinning MacTaggert in place even as he reached out blindly to pin whatever metal he could find (her dog tags; all right, not precisely as effective as he’d wanted, but it didn’t matter, they were  _something_ , at least) to her throat-  _“You did this to him-“_  
  
He only barely comprehended Charles telling him to stop, but the next words out of that gorgeous mouth caught him, left him staring down in something like horror. “She didn’t do this. You did,” and oh, God, no, he couldn’t be  _saying_  that, because he was Charles and Charles was- as much as Erik was loathe to admit it- very rarely wrong, and even then he was only wrong, from Erik’s perspective, on very specific subjects (and they’d had so many arguments, on the road together, sitting in the cramped motel rooms they shared because it was cheaper to just get the one and if there was one thing government agencies were fond of, it was saving money, debates as they played chess or as they just sat together, basking in knowing that they had finally,  _finally_  found their own kind, or were finding them, and maybe more than that that they’d found each other, and he didn’t want to say it but finding Charles, knowing him, had made him feel almost whole for the first time since-) and if he wasn’t wrong, then…  
  
He was right. Charles was… right. And oh, it stung to admit that, if only to himself; it _burned_ , it ached, it hit him in the gut like he’d been the one shot to know that it was  _his fault_  that Charles was on the sand here, tears blurring the corners of his eyes as his lips puckered up in that continuing effort to not be anything less than Professor X, leader of the merry band of mutants they’d gathered around themselves like a little makeshift family, which of course meant that  _crying_  was out of the question. _Honestly,_  Erik thought with startling clarity, the thought standing as a lone, somewhat startled coherency against the whirlwind buffeting around his mind,  _Charles never was one for logic in times like these,_  and it was that thought that shuddered through him as he let out a shaking sob of a breath for the both of them and melted into the aura of body heat that still surround Charles, that would probably  _always_  surround Charles, cradling his head and torso reverently in his lap as he bowed his head and let it drop, let  _everything_  drop, and he was vaguely aware of MacTaggert falling to her knees in the sand, rubbing at her throat and gasping a bit, but-  
  
“I’m _sorry_ ,” he whispered, and it was more of a growl then he’d really intended but he was still coming off his adrenaline high, just letting the cold defenses fall this first little bit, so that was okay, really, because he was sure Charles could  _feel_  him, sure he had to know how truly sorry he was- wait, no, that wasn’t right, there was something off about that statement; it took him a scrambling moment, though, to realize exactly what it was that was wrong, and he hesitated for a moment, but reached up with one shaking hand and shoved the helmet off, hearing it hit the sand behind him with a dull  _thunk_  as he reached back down to tuck a wayward curl out of Charles’ face, away from the blood that streaked him in places and the dirt and grime that covered most of the others. “I’m _sorry_ , Charles, I-“  
  
“It’s,” Charles tried, gritting his teeth a bit and trying to flash him a smile, and he tried to ignore it but something inside him twisted a little bit at that, panged at the upturn of lips that was far more of a grimace than anything, “It’s… don’t, don’t worry, we’ll be fine, Erik, just-” He very deliberately seeks out Erik’s eyes, and for just this second he couldn’t possibly escape those baby blues, which in the space of a few minutes have been aged by thousands of years ( _by me,_  part of him reminds the rest blankly, quietly;  _that’s my fault, that_ ). “Don’t leave.” His voice catches, and he winces on the last word, but he doesn’t drop Erik’s gaze, and he’s numbed by the knowledge that he’s nodding. It’s not- he can’t be nodding, he can’t  _stay_ -  
  
It’s not really that he doesn’t want to - if he’s honest, he wants nothing more, right now, than to stay with Charles, to somehow make amends for, for injuring him. But if there’s one thing this entire _debacle_  has made achingly clear, it’s that they- they’re catastrophic, in close quarters like this. They may have the same goal, but they clearly want it in startlingly different ways. Charles is so  _soft_ , he thinks bitterly, almost bitingly, and he is… anything but. There’s no way they can be part of the same… team, or whatever it is Charles intends to do with his little menagerie, not without exploding violently in each other’s faces, probably in much the same way they just have.  
  
Charles flinches beneath him, and Erik’s rapture is returned to his drawn, pale face. “We can talk about it,” he manages, then hesitates. “Erik, I- I’m not sure what I should even be saying, after- after all of this,” and he’s slowing down in a way Charles usually doesn’t have to, his words being thought out with a strain that is showing on his face, “but I- more than anything, I want to work this out with you. I want to- to make the world into a place where we can be happy, where  _everyone_  can be happy, humans and mutants and- and everything else, anyone else that could possibly exist, and to do it without bloodshed and to do it with- with you.” One of the tears that’s been welled up in the corners of his eyes from so long now, barely restrained, manages to break free, and Erik feels the strangest constriction in his throat, as though he’s choking on the very thought of breathing, of speaking.  
  
“Yes,” is the first word he can force out, and even if he’d still been wearing the helmet he thinks he might have felt the projection of relief that comes sweeping off of Charles, even tempered as it is by pain and mistrust and  _broken_  trust. “Yes, I- we can. Talk about it, that is.” He swallows, looks away for the first time in what feels like eons, and remembers they’re not alone. The others are hovering, their mistrust far more dominant than Charles’ is, and far more evident on their faces, even as they just barely keep their distance. He looks back at Charles and sees what they see- their Professor, their leader, bleeding on the ground and in the arms of the person who had seemingly just made his position as their enemy quite clear. He clears his throat and looks back at Charles; he’s sniffling just the tiniest bit,  and his mouth is now just one twisted knot trying to hold himself in. “But,” Erik says, his voice constricting oddly, “I think first we should - you need a doctor, Charles, you look-“  
  
“Bad?” Charles submits, his mouth turning up and out of its knot just a bit, at the corner.   
  
Erik manages to return a tiny little grimace-smile of his own. “Like hell warmed over.” He looks up again, this time specifically seeking out Hank- it’s odd to be looking for a large, blue, furry shape amongst the blue-and-yellow jumpsuits and the sand and the steel, the  _masses_  of steel, thrumming behind them, as opposed to the rather mousy, vaguely meek young man he’d more or less come to know, but it certainly makes him easier to identify as Erik casts a brief, panicked look over the group (only  _mildly_  panicked, surely, he tells himself, but it sounds weak even to him and a voice from another quadrant wonders why he even cares, when he’s so obviously thrown in the towel in favor of Charles in this round, anyway).   
  
Hank seems to know what he’s thinking, and hurries over, his paws- there really is no other word for them, but of course he doesn’t mean that in a  _bad_  way, he thinks towards Charles when he catches a snippet of disapproving protectiveness pushed into his mind from below- sending up waves of sand in his wake as he carelessly tosses himself to the ground and begins poking (though poking gently enough that Charles doesn’t wince and Erik has no need to glare at him with that odd protective sense that he’s usually so good at ignoring), and Raven takes that as her cue to rush over as well, and then MacTaggert is on the other side of Raven and Alex and Sean are running to them as well, and in the back of his mind he’s aware of Angel hovering nearby, as well, somewhat reluctant and not really part of the group anymore but on the edge, anyway, though her two comrades are, thankfully, keeping their distance.

  
So at least they’re all there, leaving fleeting touches on unbattered skin and saying the inane little things  _(it’s going to be fine, you’ll be fine, we’re here, we love you)_  that Erik just isn’t good at, hasn’t really ever been- and it would have taken a fool to miss the way Charles relaxed, if just a little, once they were all accounted for- when Hank gently squeezes Charles’ knee and says slowly, in a voice that implies quite blatantly that he already knows the answer, “Charles, can you feel this?”  
  
It’s admirable, the way Charles’ voice doesn’t waver when he says “No.”  
  
Hank reaches a bit lower and squeezes a bit harder. “Now?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Hank pinches his thigh, Hank grabs his feet, Hank shakes his legs, and all Charles can say is “No, no. I’m sorry, no, no-“  
  
“Don’t you be  _sorry_ ,” Erik almost growls, when the tears that had almost disappeared clot at the edges of Charles’ eyes again. “Don’t- don’t be  _sorry_ , this is- this is not your fault.” And Charles looks up at him again, his eyes still old but- scared, like a child who’s lost their way and can’t find their parents, can’t find their friends, can’t find anyone they know or love. Erik doesn’t know what to do- Erik hasn’t seen anyone he cared for, honestly cared for, in this much pain in such a long time- Erik can’t do more now than he could then, can’t lift the proverbial coin even now- but Erik reaches down and takes his hand and  _squeezes_ , and stares at Charles and tries to project his own version of what the others had soothed with earlier.  _It’s going to be all right. I’m here. I’m not going to leave. I’m going to make this right. I’m not going to hurt you again._  And apparently he does well enough, even with his somewhat lacking interpersonal skills, because Charles, of all wonders, relaxes, just a bit, and squeezes his hand back.  
  
“I can feel that, at least,” he says, his voice determined on the top, even though the scared child is right there below the surface. But Erik squeezes his hand again, and as they gather themselves and Erik gathers Charles and they stand, Charles’ weight spread evenly across his arms in something of a bridal carry as Hank walks beside them, trying to figure out if there’s anything more he can do, as Erik convinces/threatens/pleads (not that he’d ever plead, that’s just what someone else might call it, or what it would be called if someone else had done it, because  _Erik Lehnsherr does not plead_ \- Magneto _does not plead, dammit)_  Azazel until he agrees, somewhat reluctantly, to teleport them to a hospital, in the US because damned if Erik isn’t getting the hell out of Cuba  _right now,_  Erik hears a very quiet thought pressed to the surface of his mind, as though Charles is trying not to intrude, or else (far more likely, he must admit) Charles is bone-numbingly tired.  
  
 _Thank you._  
  
He doesn’t even care that he’s left the helmet sitting on the sand.


End file.
